His laugh fades as we walk over the sandy roots of the forest and toward the crowd. People with bandages over their eyes, their hands, some of them missing legs. Burned skin peeking out, children huddled together without family. The crowd is brimming with the injured, the old, the sick, and the hungry. A little boy tugs at Lucien’s overcoat, and the prince puts a hand on the boy’s head and offers a bit of jerky from his pouch. He takes it eagerly, chomping, and Lucien looks back to me. His smile is sadder this time.

“Right now, it’s princely business time.”

My unheart steels and I nod, carefully maneuvering through the crowd with him. People cry out when they see our swords, our clothes that aren’t rags. Some cling and beg for food, for shelter, thinking we’re with some authority, and I watch Lucien’s heart break one shard at a time. He reaches out to all of them with his food and coin pouch, but the crowd starts to frenzy around him, and I know instantly he’s in danger. Like a synchronized performance, I feel Malachite at my side as we step in between the prince and the crowd, making a ring with our backs and arms.

“Keep distance,” Malachite bellows. “And maintain patience! There’s room enough for all in Pala Amna!”

“Is there?” Fione whispers at my side. “It seems half of Cavanos is here.”

“Pala Amna is a fortress city,” Yorl assures her. “There are wings built into the Dark Below for just such an occasion.”

“And the food?” Fione presses.

“The beneathers are expert preservers and fermenters. They can stretch their stores to last for several weeks, even with this amount of mouths.”

“Enough time, then,” Lucien says, fists gripped tight at his side as he strides through the crowd and we follow. I can tell he’s trying desperately not to look at the people, lest he break again. “For us to do what must be done.”

“Won’t be able to endure a siege, though,” Malachite muses.

“If we do things right, there won’t be a siege,” Fione says. I clear my throat.

“Varia doesn’t want a siege anyway. That’s slow death. She wants immediate and total destruction.”

“Comforting.” Malachite throws a smirk at me, and I throw one back.

“I try.”

“Advocate,” he suddenly barks at a passing guard beneather. “Where’s your adjudicator?”

The beneather narrows his ruby eyes through his helmet. “Who’s asking?”

A dimness creeps into Malachite’s gaze, stifling the usual bite and wit in them. “The Malachite of House Olt’reya.”

The change is instant. The guard goes from suspicious and low-stanced to tall, clutching his spear rigidly and his visor almost too comically falling with his shock.

“Mala—” The guard chokes. “Second Son Olt’reya! Faldinis arn!”